


Strike

by i_eat_men_like_air



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: CBT, Cock Slapping, Cock and Ball Torture or Cognitive Behavioural Therapy? You Decide, Collins' Canonically Huge Dick Is Featured, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Does Stanley Feel Things? Perhaps, Dubious Consent, Incredibly Dubious Medical Conduct, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Mr Collins' Overactive Imagination, One Sided Masturbation, Or Is It?, Uh Oh Doctor My Back Hurts And Now I Have An Erection, Verbal Humiliation, fantasising, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29310945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_eat_men_like_air/pseuds/i_eat_men_like_air
Summary: ‘Mr. Collins?’ came an imperious sigh as Dr. Stanley looked up from his work.The doctor ran a cool, disinterested gaze over Henry’s form, all but doubled over from the pain shooting up his spine.‘Mr. Collins? Is there something you need, or do you intend to simply stand there all night like some kind of silent ghoul?’
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Stephen S. Stanley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 3 of The Terror Rarepair Week 2021, playing fast and loose with the prompt 'Frozen In'.  
> I'm sorry Mr. Collins you deserve better, but you will not be getting it in this fic.

Henry Foster Collins felt as if he were frozen in his bones. Not literally - not yet anyway - but he felt that horrid creeping frost begin its inevitable march over and under his skin as he was stripped of his standard diving dress. He had hoped for one of the medical officers to be present when he had risen from the depths, but there had been no such luck, and now he was being yanked every which way until he was stood below deck in naught but his underpants. Mr. Bridgens appeared silently by his side, ushering the others away from Henry, and smiled sympathetically as he dressed him quickly and carefully in a clean set of slops. Henry smiled back as best he could, appreciative that the steward remained quiet throughout the process; he never felt like talking after a dive, and felt even less like talking at the moment. The image of Billy Orrin was burned into the back of his eyes, stretching out his arms in a silent underwater tableau. He gulped, nodding his thanks to Bridgens as the steward finished redressing him and drying his hair carefully with a towel. Bridgens nodded back, and enquired if Henry needed anything else, before retreating from the small cabin with a small, kind smile as Henry declined any further attention. 

It was quiet in Henry’s small quarters, barely more than a cupboard with a bed, and he was thankful for the privacy as he collapsed on the edge of his berth. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging through the damp curls in an attempt to unknot them as they dried. There was a small lamp set on the desk, illuminating the room in a light that felt far kinder than Henry thought he deserved. He daren’t close his eyes to rest, afeared that Sir John might call upon him again for a more detailed account of the dive. The man had seemed almost sickeningly fascinated by his experience beneath the water, his eyes gleaming with interest when Henry had described the dive as dreamlike. He had told Henry he was  _ envious _ , for Christ’s sake! Henry thought the notion preposterous; no man who had been beneath the waves, as he had, was ever truly the same when he resurfaced, particularly when the pelagic depths created such horrors to behold when a diver was not in his right mind. 

Henry sighed; he had not been in his right mind for many weeks now, and it had been exacerbated by the death of Billy. He had considered asking Dr. Stanley for assistance, some small hope that maybe the cold, tall man could help him, but every time he saw the doctor he felt his body seize up in terror. Dr. Stanley was not a man to inspire a friendly conversation, let alone one that Henry feared as much as discussing his state of mind. He had considered Mr. Goodsir as well, wondering if the small, kind-eyed man would be more amenable, but then he would see the man and panic all the same - not wanting to burden such a sweet, gentle man with the rot that he felt wriggling around within. So he sat alone in his room, silently, hoping that perhaps the rest of the ship would forget his existence and allow him to slip away without a fuss.

After a while, Henry felt his eyelids droop. The exhaustion he felt was unavoidable, and there had been no knock at his door, no demand for him to present a report to the other officers. Henry picked at the uniform Mr. Bridgens had so kindly dressed him in, and sighed again; he did not wish to see another soul for as long as he could, let alone a man as gentle as Bridgens, who would undoubtedly notice that Henry was out of sorts. Henry kicked off his boots, nudging them with his toes until they were tucked beneath his desk, and snuffed out the lantern before crawling beneath the blanket on his berth, resting his head on the thin pillow with a groan. His body ached, deep in his bones, and his head was throbbing. Whether that was from some pressure related malady, or simply from the terror of seeing Billy emerge from the depths, he could not say. But, mercifully, closing his eyes seemed to help. It was not a soft bed, nor a comfortable blanket, but in that moment Henry couldn’t bring himself to care, and he quickly descended into unconsciousness. 

He was unsure of how many hours had passed, despite straining his ears for some signs of a bell, but when Henry awoke he all but yelped as an arrow of pain shot from his neck down to his buttocks. It was dark in the room, so several hours had passed at least, and Henry groaned as he tried to sit up. The pain shot through him again, and he felt his back arch with the sharpness of it. It radiated out through his arms and down his legs, and he could have shouted with the intensity of it. But, knowing his shipmates were most likely asleep besides the watch, he bit down sharply on his bottom lip, whimpering near-silently.

Henry staggered to his feet, eyes welling up as he stood. He couldn’t bring himself to bend, to pull his boots on, and instead ended up shuffling towards the sickbay in his thick, woollen socks, wincing at the dampness that seeped through them. For all he had hoped to avoid the attentions of the medical officers, he couldn’t report to duty tomorrow morning hunched over like an old woman. The lamps along the ship’s corridors were lit low, but provided enough light for Henry to make his way to the domain of Dr. Stanley with little confusion. He prayed that Goodsir was there instead of Stanley, not knowing what he would say to the terrifying doctor if he was there, and his stomach dropped when he entered the sickbay and found his prayer ignored. 

‘Mr. Collins?’ came an imperious sigh as Dr. Stanley looked up from his work. 

The doctor ran a cool, disinterested gaze over Henry’s form, all but doubled over from the pain shooting up his spine.

‘Mr. Collins? Is there something you need, or do you intend to simply stand there all night like some kind of silent ghoul?’

Henry winced at the doctor’s tone, hating the clipped, clinical nature of it, and stepped forward with a whine as another agonising arrow shot through him. He could have cried with embarrassment as he felt his knees give way, and he was dimly aware of Stanley’s footsteps heading in his direction at an unhurried pace as he stared at his knees where they met the wood of the infirmary floor. Strong, dispassionate hands reached beneath Henry’s arms and hauled him up to the examination table. Henry yelped as his back spasmed, and looked up at Stanley with wide, wounded eyes. 

‘Have you been injured, Mr. Collins?’

Still not an ounce of compassion in Stanley’s voice, and Henry would have laughed if he had not been writhing with the pain.

‘No doctor, don’t think so, I just woke up after the dive and well -,’ he gestured at his back as best he could, hissing as it spasmed again, once again shooting those arrows down his arms. 

Stanley sighed, appearing for all the world as if Henry’s pain was some personal slight, designed to disrupt his evening.

‘Remove your upper layers, Mr. Collins, and lay face down on the table.’

The doctor gave no context or explanation for his instructions, but the look on his face made Henry wriggle out of his coat, jumper, shirt and undershirt with as much speed as he could muster. As he moved, his back gave another spasm, and another, and each time he yelped like a puppy kicked by its master. And, each time he yelped, Dr. Stanley did not turn his head from whatever he was doing, or acknowledge Henry in any way. By the time Henry rolled over onto his front, he could feel himself panting from the exertion. 

Cold, dry hands appeared upon the bare skin of his back, and Henry inhaled sharply. He could not remember the last time he had felt skin-to-skin contact with another person, and that it was a man as chilly as Dr. Stanley made his stomach twist with shame. The hands probed around the expanse of his back, jabbing and poking with no regard for Henry’s comfort, only stopping when they met a spot that made Henry cry out like a stuck pig.

Apparently satisfied, the hands disappeared, and returned just as cold as before, but this time they were slicked with some unidentifiable oil.

‘It appears you have a trapped nerve, Mr. Collins. An ailment that is hardly worth your melodramatics, and easily fixed, so please remain still as I work.’

Henry grunted his consent, wanting more than anything to wheel around and smack the man for his dismissal of the  _ agony _ shooting through him. With that, the hands at his back began to firmly, methodically press down. Henry hissed as they hit that tender spot, biting down on his lip once again to hide his discomfort from the doctor. As Stanley silently continued his ministrations, Henry felt a rush of liquid warmth run through him. Whether it was the sudden proximity of another body, or the firm pressure that the man was applying, he couldn’t tell. Regardless of the cause, his trousers suddenly felt far too tight and he felt a blush rise up over his cheeks.

Stanley, mercifully, did not seem to be aware of the effect his touch was having. He was still silent, and Henry could feel the doctor’s body at his side, radiating warmth in the chilly air of the sickbay. The doctor hit another tender spot, nearer the base of his spine, and Henry whimpered.

‘Good heavens, Mr. Collins,’ came the man’s terse reaction, ‘I thought navy men were meant to be tough.’

Henry felt the blush deepen on his cheeks. He didn’t respond to the doctor’s thinly veiled distaste, but the shame of it went straight to his crotch. The next time he whimpered, it was not so much from the rapidly dulling pain, but from Stanley’s hands firmly pressing down near the rise of his trousers, forcing his quickly swelling stand to rub against the table. He bit his tongue as soon as the noise was out, but he felt the doctor still immediately.

‘Mr. Collins, what exactly are you doing?’

Henry twisted his face, grateful that the pain in his back appeared to be receding, and stared up at the doctor with a bashful expression. He was sure that his face was cherry red, flushed like some kind of slattern.

‘’m sorry, sir…’ his voice trailed off, unsure of how to continue without saying something enormously incriminating that would surely cause Stanley to strike him.

_ Stanley striking him _ , the image made his prick throb in his trousers, and he quickly turned his face back to the table, staring into the whorls of wood in a desperate attempt to distract himself. He didn’t even  _ like _ the man, let alone harbour any kind of attraction towards him, and yet…

‘Turn over, Mr. Collins,’ Henry winced at the peevish tone of Stanley’s baritone before he even caught notice of what had been said. 

‘Doctor?’ his voice was small, far smaller than it had any right to be given his stature, and he turned his head again to stare at the tall, slender man looming over him.

The doctor’s face was steely, lips thin with irritation, as if Henry’s state was a splinter in his thumb rather than an offence that should merit a beating.

‘ _ Turn over _ , Mr. Collins, or I shall send you back to your berth and report you to the Captain for indecency in full view of an officer.’

Henry swallowed. He wanted, now more than ever before, to disappear into the ship’s floor beneath him, to be absorbed by one of those wooden eddies, never to be heard of again. But the thought of Stanley reporting him to Sir John terrified him even more than the prospect of the doctor seeing him in such a state. He steeled himself as best he could, swallowing heavily again before rolling himself awkwardly onto his back. The air was cold against his chest, and even through his trousers and long underwear he felt his prick twitch at the exposure and sudden drop in temperature. Stanley ran his eyes over him, as if appraising some wet, taxidermied specimen in a jar of formaldehyde. His eyes stopped as they reached Henry’s stand, and he arched an eyebrow, seeming to be simply irritated by a turn of events that had so far left Henry bright red from the neck up. 

‘Mr. Collins this is unacceptable,’ the doctor’s voice was perfectly steady, still displaying his usual level of indifference at the sight before him.

‘You cannot return to your berth sporting such a -,’ he sighed, waving his hand in the direction of Henry’s prick, ‘- a boyish condition.’

Henry opened his mouth to apologise, wishing for all the world for the table to fold in half and remove him from this predicament, but the doctor held up a hand to silence him.

‘You shall have to deal with it here.’

Henry’s mouth hung open like a fish that had been rudely separated from its native habitat.

‘Sir?’ his voice was weak, more of a croak than a question.

Dr. Stanley sighed again, rubbing his forehead with elegant, well-manicured fingers.  _ Lovely hands _ , Henry thought, forehead furrowing in surprise at the statement as it appeared from somewhere deep in his mind.

‘You are familiar with how to deal with such a problem, are you not, Mr. Collins?’ his eyebrow arching all the higher and his lips pursed tightly together.

‘I -, yes doctor, ‘f’course I am…’ Henry barely recognised his own voice, thin and reedy as it was as he whispered out the answer.

‘It’s just, well, I -.’

Stanley cut him off again.

‘Do be quiet, Mr. Collins, it is a simple enough procedure, is it not? One you have performed countless times before, I assume?’

‘Sir, I -.’

‘Mr. Collins, will you do us both the favour of getting this over with, or rest assured I will be registering a less than flattering report with Sir John regarding your  _ proclivities _ .’

The last word was hissed out like a curse, and Henry’s eyes widened in horror at the thought.

‘Y-yes, sir.’

Henry shut his eyes quickly, not wanting to look at the tall, imposing figure of the doctor while he began the task of ‘ _ getting this over with _ ’. He fumbled with the fastenings at the front of his trousers, pulling his aching prick out into the air with a hiss. He gave himself a squeeze, feeling relieved tears sting at the corner of his eyes from, and began to frig himself far too aggressively, not wanting to drag this out, as he often would when alone. All he could think of was surviving this ordeal and retreating back to his berth to sit with his humiliation, away from the glare of Dr. Stanley.

Henry moved his hand quickly up and down his length, squeezing firmly at his crown and bucking up into his fist at the sensation. When given his privacy, he would play gently with his stones before taking his prick in hand and slowly building up to crisis, enjoying the warmth and softness of the sensitive flesh as his callouses provided the perfect amount of friction to tip him over that white hot edge. Now, however, the friction was of no help whatsoever. Every time he felt a callous rub against his cockstand he winced, feeling as off he might rub the skin off his prick before finishing. He didn’t want to risk spitting in his hand to ease the way, not wanting to give Stanley any further cause to mock him, but the dryness of his palm was making it impossible to get anywhere. What little pre-ejaculate he was producing provided scant relief, but nowhere near the slickness he needed to bring himself off with any speed or finesse. 

After some time of Henry frantically pulling at himself like a nervous teenager, he heard an irritated sigh come from somewhere across the room.

‘Are you  _ quite _ sure you’ve done this before, Mr. Collins? Only you appear to be making a rather painful picture of yourself,’ Stanley’s tone was entirely void of passion or interest, despite how Henry must have appeared before him.

Henry opened his eyes, blinking away the stars left from having them clenched so tightly shut, and turned his head to look at Dr. Stanley. The man was sat at his desk, his face was the picture of composure, all pale skin and clear cut lines, seeming to be made of porcelain as opposed to Henry’s shameful, crawling flesh. 

‘Lubricate your hand, for God’s sake, or you shall do yourself an injury that I will not stoop to treat.’

Henry nodded shamefully, reaching to spit in his palm before he felt a cold hand at his wrist.

‘Do not spit on yourself, Mr. Collins, you are not an ape, as far as I am aware. Here.’

Stanley handed him a tin of something slick and cold, and Henry scooped a lump of it out with his fingertips, warming it in his hand as the doctor rolled his eyes and returned to his desk.

‘Continue, Mr. Collins, we don’t have all night.’

Henry nodded again, staring up at the wooden ceiling before taking himself in hand again. He could have moaned like a doxy at the slip and slide the lubrication allowed him, but he bit down onto his much abused lower lip, stifling any noise that might give Stanley cause to criticise him. His prick was still iron-hard, and hot beneath his hand. He jerked up into his own grip, gasping at the blissful sensation as he frigged himself as fast as his exhausted bones would allow him. Quickly losing himself in the near decadent twist and pull of his palm, his mind wandered unwittingly to Dr. Stanley.

The man was still sitting at his desk with a stony expression that was centred on Henry’s face. He still appeared entirely unaffected by Henry’s efforts, but as Henry focussed his eyes a little better he saw that there was a slight pinkness to the doctor’s cheekbones that had not been there a moment ago. Henry twisted his head back to look at the ceiling, struck with surprise that the doctor was having any kind of tangible reaction. The man never reacted to anything, unless constant, mild annoyance counted as a reaction. Henry gulped a mouthful of air, massaging the underside of his prick with slicked fingers and whining softly at the feeling. 

He wondered how Stanley’s fingers would feel. Would they be softer than his? The man’s hands were definitely larger than his, but they were narrow and elegant where Henry’s were broad and rough. He thought they would almost definitely feel better than his own. Comments about ‘surgeon’s hands’ were commonplace enough, but he had never thought about how those hands could be put to use on his yard. He doubted Stanley would be gentle; the man was not gentle in any way that Henry had witnessed, but perhaps the roughness of his touch would be effective. Henry could almost feel one of those long, slender hands as it wrapped around his length, massaging him there as he had done his back. Would the pressure at his stand be as divine as it had been on less sensitive flesh? Would those hands on his prick reveal callouses that Henry could not see at a proper, sensible distance? He whimpered softly; mind grasping at the imagined roughness of Stanley’s grip.

He would buck into the grip, whining as Stanley jerked him with vicious singularity, admonishing him for being so wanton in his desires. Would Stanley degrade him entirely? Would he call Henry some kind of  _ whore _ for submitting so easily? Would he slap him if he wriggled too enthusiastically under his hand? Henry groaned, imagining the sting of Stanley’s palm across his face, across his stand…

‘ _ God… _ ’ Henry moaned, gripping himself firmly at the thought of Stanley slapping his prick in his usual uncaring, icy manner, as if toying with an insect.

The doctor might chuckle at him, striking his prick and his stones until Henry was weeping, reminding him that ‘ _ navy men were meant to be tough _ ’, encouraging him to take more strikes. Stanley might drag his slender fingers over the delicate skin, dispassionate and curious, before striking again, causing Henry to cry out. The pain would be exquisite, shattering through him. Henry moaned, his hand flying over his prick at the shameful thought of how Stanley would touch him, of how Stanley would  _ hurt _ him. He would be bruised the next day, his stones tender against his underwear and his prick too sensitive to walk correctly. He would have to explain to his fellow officers and the crew why he could not sit comfortably or move as he usually did. Stanley would aim a frosty stare at his face if he winced or complained. 

Henry whimpered, frenetically tugging at himself. Stanley would show no sympathy, any soreness he felt would be Henry’s fault, and his fault alone. For being such a  _ disgusting little invert _ , for begging the doctor to strike him time and time again. Because he would beg. He would beg the doctor to strike him, to make him  _ feel _ something. He would beg until his throat was raw and his lips were bloody from biting at them. Stanley would stare at him with those horrible, beautiful blue eyes, revealing nothing but icy annoyance at how Henry begged beneath him. His prick wouldn’t even be hard; Stanley would feel nothing for Henry, why should he? The doctor would simply strike him, raising fire between Henry’s legs, entirely unaffected.  _ Disgusting creature, begging for such terrible things. _ He felt his stones tighten against the base of his stand, gasping for breath as he felt his release crash into him with a yelp, the image of Stanley in his head fading as quickly as it had appeared. Henry was dimly aware of his back protesting as he arched off of the table with the sheer force of his finish, but the burning, shameful pleasure swept all other sensations aside.

‘ _ Doctor… _ ’ he had barely whispered the title, but the sudden rush of humiliation surged forwards from the embers of his crisis.

_ God, had Stanley heard? _

There was a  _ thump _ from across the room, and Henry turned his head in a daze, looking for the source. Stanley was still there, the flush atop his cheekbones more pronounced than before, and Henry could see neither of his hands.  _ Good Lord! Had the man been frigging himself beneath the desk? _

Henry briefly met the man’s sheetice blue eyes, and there was a flicker of heat within them before that familiar, steely drawbridge was brought down once more and his gaze hardened.

‘Are you quite finished with that dramatic little show, Mr. Collins?’ Stanley’s tone was clipped as usual, betraying none of the pinkness in his face.

Henry looked down at himself. His spend was drying into the thick, dark hair on his chest and stomach and he grimaced at the sorry state he was in.  _ Pathetic _ , came Stanley’s voice, echoing through him. Henry let his head fall back on to the table, breathing heavily. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent so soundly. Stanley stood above him again, with no sign that he had been anywhere near the fastening of his trousers. Perhaps Henry had imagined it; it would make little sense for Stanley to be affected in any way by Henry’s sorry display, horrible creature that he was.

‘Are you finished, Mr. Collins?’ came the question again, and Henry blinked up at the doctor, biting back a yelp as a freezing cloth wiped the spend from his stomach and chest with rough, surgical strokes.

‘Yessir,’ Henry mumbled out, flinching as Stanley unceremoniously deposited his clothing upon his stomach, not daring to look into the man’s face. 

He pulled on his layers clumsily, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and struggling to wriggle into his jumper with any kind of finesse. By the time he had straightened his coat, Stanley was sitting back at his desk, eyes fixed on whatever work he had been doing when Henry had staggered into the sickbay. He stood slowly, noting with relief that his back no longer pained him, and paused for a moment, feeling much like a bottle cast adrift in the ocean. Stanley glanced up at him, seeming peeved that he was still there.

‘Do you intend to stand there all night, Mr. Collins, or will you be letting me continue my work?’

Henry swallowed heavily and tucked his hands into his coat pockets, unsure of what else to do with them.

‘Yessir, I mean no sir, I’ll leave you to your work, doctor,’ he mumbled, tripping over his words before nearly tripping over his feet on the way out of sickbay, his face burning.

As he returned to his berth there were mercifully few crew members up and about, and those that he passed did not attempt to start any conversation beyond a ‘ _ good evening _ ’ and a nod of the head. He felt his skin crawl beneath his clothes, his stomach still damp and cold from the cloth that Stanley had wiped him with, and he pulled the curtain across his room with a shuddering sigh. His day was set to begin at four bells, whenever that was, and he sank back into his berth in silence. Henry pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders, holding himself in a pale imitation of an embrace as he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
